Father's Son
by JennyLB
Summary: The argument between Peter and Neal at the end of "Under the Radar" is used as the catalyst to dig deeper into Neal's childhood and explain his fear of violence and guns and his extensive knowledge and talents.  Warning: child abuse and explicit language
1. Terror

**Chapter One: Terror**

It was a look FBI Special Agent Peter Burke had never seen in the eyes of his young Confidential Informant, Neal Caffrey. His eyes disclosed a look of fear. In the three years Peter had chased Neal and the two years they have worked together, Neal's expressions showed many things, but fear of Peter was never one of them.

Two minutes prior, Peter had come barreling through Neal's apartment door, finding Neal sipping Pinot at his kitchen table. The bottle was nearly empty. Neal had jumped and looked in Peter's direction when he heard the door bang open. Then, seeing it was Peter, Neal had dropped his eyes back to the wine glass in his hands. This gesture infuriated Peter even more.

"It was you. You did this," Peter yelled, physically grabbing Neal by his white dress shirt and slamming him against the door frame of the kitchenette. "Those were your paintings in the warehouse. You can't deny that! It was you who conned Adler…and you conned us all, too!" Peter yelled even louder.

Neal's crystal blue eyes betrayed him; he was afraid.

Peter scrunched his brows together, realizing that the look in the young con-artist's eyes disclosed fear. He scanned his memory for any recollection of these emotions from the young man toward him in the past and could never recall seeing that exact expression.

Neal held his breath. Several seconds passed motionless and silent between the two. Peter then released his hands, causing Neal to slump slightly forward, drop his head, and take a breath. Peter then reached up in an attempt to straighten the crumpled dress shirt of his ex-con-artist friend. As his hand reached up, Peter saw again something he had never seen exchanged between the two in all of the years they had known one another: terror.

Neal had unconsciously flinched as his peripheral vision caught site of Peter's hand.

Neal caught himself and smiled up at Peter, trying to mask his fear.

Peter decided to allow his hands to press out the wrinkles on Neal's shirt but was obviously affected by his young friend's physical reaction.

They backed away from one another and said nothing for another 90 seconds.

Neal, still holding his wine glass, consumed in one mouthful the remaining spirits in his glass and made his way to the couch. Peter stood silently. He was angry and confused.

In their last conversation on the docks near the burning warehouse, Neal had told Peter to prove that he was the one who had orchestrated the entire con. Neal had known Peter could prove nothing. Neal had known he was innocent.

Neal had left the docks angry that the man he had come to consider his friend—and sometimes even his father—had immediately seen the worst in him. After all they had been through together, Neal thought to himself as he walked back to June's from the dock, how could Peter not trust him now? Besides anger, Neal had been confused about the other emotions that had surfaced in his mind. He was struggling to process these emotions as he walked. He honestly didn't know what they were or what they meant.

Peter took in a long breath and sat down on the couch next to Neal.

"They were your paintings. I saw a remnant of the Chrysler Building," Peter spoke quickly, focusing a majority of his energy on regaining his composure.

"I didn't do it, Peter," Neal responded. Neal could feel the note and key press against his leg still in the right pocket of his pants. He knew the German valuables had been taken to a warehouse and that he was now involved, but he knew he wasn't the one who had coordinated the con. He answered Peter as succinctly as possible.

Neal was always a master of the language. He toyed with words, using them to his full advantage at all times. Very little escaped his mouth without being screened by his brilliant mind.

Another minute passed between them in silence. Neither one knew what to say to the other. Peter knew that he needed to say or do something to prevent Neal was rebuilding the wall that had often been so prevalent between the two of them. He flashed on the numerous events in the past two years where, brick by brick, Neal had lowered the wall to allow Peter to see into his world.

He remembered the Houser Clinic where the drugged Neal had confessed that Peter was the only one he trusted.

He remembered his anger toward Agent Rice when she used Neal, calling him a tool. She had put Neal's life in danger, and that had scared Peter.

He remembered knowing that only Neal could get him out of the cell when he had been kidnapped by Jason Lang. Peter had sternly told his supervisor, Agent Reese Hughes, to put Neal on the phone.

He also knew Neal was a master manipulator of the language. In Neal's mind, however, he had never directly lied to Peter. This contradiction was what caused that tingle on the back of Peter's neck. Peter knew that trust from his perspective would never be 100 percent until Neal could learn how to talk without naturally manipulating the language.

It was Elizabeth who represented the trusting part of his psyche. She was the one who always hugged him from behind as he sat at their table trying to figure out the young con-artist. She always reassured Peter that he would do the right thing. El had 100 percent trust in Peter, and she loved Neal and believed that where her husband was concerned, Neal would do the right thing.

Unfortunately, she hadn't been there on the docks beside the burning warehouse to help Peter process his thoughts and emotions. Despite the fact that Vincent Adler was clearly a representation of the seedy underbelly of society, Peter felt conflicted for having shot and killed him. Peter had allowed his fear of losing Neal to Adler's gun to control his reaction. He had shot Adler in the back.

Finally Peter spoke, "I wasn't going to hurt you. I'm sorry. I was angry."

Neal bobbed his head up and down, unable to say anything in response. His emotions were too close to the surface. Even though he knew Peter was sorry, he also believed Peter would have physically hurt him in his fit of rage. This wasn't a slam on Peter; it was just how people had always responded to him for as long as he could remember.

"Hey, look at me," Peter spoke again.

Neal continued to stare at the diamond pattern on the rug under his couch and coffee table. Peter wanted to physically move Neal's face toward him but was afraid to touch him.

Something buried deep had resurfaced.

They sat in silence.


	2. Childhood

**Chapter Two: Childhood**

It was four months into the marriage of Laurence and Marian Caffrey that their full-term son Neal was born. Marian's family had turned away from her for getting pregnant out of wedlock. Laurence's family paid little mind to the situation. The young couple was on their own.

Laurence and Marian had been high school sweethearts, and Laurence had gone on to college to become a police officer in their home town. Marian had maintained her job in a small café and had used the downstairs neighbor to watch their infant son when she worked. Once her infant had been born, Marian no longer found time to paint. She put that aspect of her life on hold. Laurence's hours were long and grueling, but they believed one day he would be a rising star in the police department where he was serving as a cop.

Both Marian and Laurence knew from the beginning that their son was special. He had maintained eye contact with them as a very young infant. He had started speaking in complete sentences at about ten months of age. He had been able to read and write by his second birthday. His voice had held perfect pitch, and his hand had drawn pictures too beautiful to be scotch-tapped to the Frigidaire.

Neal had been the most beautiful child everyone who had contact with the small family had ever seen. He was small framed with dark curly hair and the most perfect blue eyes to set off his face. He was shy and introverted. He had loved books and engaging adults in conversation on topics well beyond his years. His mind was brilliant and never stopped working.

As a toddler, Neal would smile broadly as he would hear his father gingerly turn the key to their apartment door and come inside to his family. Laurence's large hands would often scoop up his young son and talk to him or listen to him read as they would wait on their couch to be called for dinner. He would smile and pat the toddler on his head, his pride evident. The three would talk pleasantries during dinner, and Laurence was always donned in his neatly pressed officer's uniform.

A few months past Neal's third birthday, the boy knew something was no longer right in his family as he would catch bits and pieces of his parents' hushed-toned conversations from his bedroom where he had been banished. Then, Laurence began taking up the drink to self-medicate through his obvious mental anguish.

Laurence's drunkenness became a nightly ritual, and he then began barging through their apartment door demanding his dinner be warm and on the table immediately upon his arrival even though the times were never consistent. So, it was the child's responsibility to watch the street for his mother to alert her as to when his father was approaching their building. Neal had started to dread his father's arrival home. It changed his smiling mother into a nervous, flighty person who was desperately trying to please the husband she so loved.

Laurence's physical abuse toward his son started about the time Neal was five and in kindergarten. At first, he would usually smack his son several times on his butt, legs, or back with just his hands so there would be nothing apparent to outsiders. But within a year, the physical punishments increased drastically because Laurence no longer cared what others might think. He knew what was best for his ill-behaved child and everyone else, including his own family, could go to hell.

"What the fuck is this? Laurence yelled at Neal as he kicked his six year old son in his back, knocking him down. Before Neal could answer his father and tell him that the teacher's note about his bad grade was because he wasn't able to do his homework, Laurence placed his shoed foot between the child's shoulders and skull. Neal tried to turn his head to the side so he could breathe better, but his father's foot prevented any movement in his upper body. As quickly as he had knocked the boy down, Laurence grabbed him by his hair and jerked him to his feet.

"What? What do you have to say for yourself?" his father yelled down into his face.

"My backpack was in the den last night," Neal softly answered.

"So?" Laurence challenged.

"My door was locked, and I couldn't get it," Neal responded in almost a whisper. He stopped short of saying that his parents also didn't unlock the door for him to have dinner last night but thought better of it.

"Oh, I get it," Laurence screamed at Neal, his face so close that Neal could smell the bitter sweet smell of bourbon. "Did you hear that, Marian? Young Neal here thinks it's our fault he brought home this nasty letter from his teacher. It's always someone else's fault, isn't it _son_?" Laurence roared.

Neal hated the way his father dragged out the word _son _when he was drunk. He knew the note from his teacher wasn't nasty. It was just a formality to inform them that Neal had missed enough homework assignments that some of his grades on his Report Card that marking period would be F's. He didn't answer his father and didn't see it coming because he had turned in the direction of his mother, who stood silently by the stove.

Neal felt the impact of the back of his father's hand against his nose and upper lip and then his father's foot in his stomach, causing him to lose his breath.

Neal's mother stood emotionless and motionless.

Gasping for air, the child spoke quietly, "I'm sorry. It's my fault, sir."

"Now that's more like it," Laurence responded.

Neal watched his father fumble with his belt buckle. He knew what that meant. Depending on how much alcohol he had consumed determined the extent of the whacks with his belt. That night he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad, Neal hoped.

When Laurence no longer had the energy to continue striking his son with his belt, he commanded that his wife take Neal to his room. "No snibbling," Laurence ordered.

Neal drew in a breath. The pain was excruciating for the little boy. "Yes, sir," he whimpered.

Then his mother dragged him by his arm down the hall to his bedroom. "Your father is a hero," Marian said as she sat in the floor in the corner of his dark bedroom with her hurting son on her lap rocking him back and forth. "He loves you. He's just tired from fighting all those bad men today," Marian whispered in his ear.

Neal knew differently.

Using the back of her shirt sleeve, she wiped the tears that had run down his face and had mixed into the blood under his nose and mouth. "Shhhh. Don't let him hear you cry," Marian warned. Then, upon hearing her name being screamed, she abruptly shot up and ran out of the door, leaving the battered boy alone in the corner with his knees pressed up against his chest, rocking himself back and forth. Marian didn't blame her husband for punishing their son because Neal's impulsive behaviors and poor school performance were becoming more and more difficult for her to excuse and tolerate.

The drinking and abuse became commonplace in the Caffrey apartment. His father was large, dark, and tormented. His mother was quiet and withdrawn.

Neal categorized his childhood by the _before_ and the _after _even though he didn't exactly know what had occurred to transform his father so drastically.

He didn't find out until later that Laurence Caffrey, a respected officer of the law, had experienced the most horrific shoot-out, killing many officers, including his own partner. That day was the decisive moment in Laurence Caffrey's life, which altered not only his own future but also his wife's and son's. All Neal knew was that his father _before_ was loving and caring; his father _after_ was mean and abusive, becoming someone that Neal came to fear and loathe.

Laurence Caffrey had died-figuratively speaking—when Neal was two and a half years old.

When in the second grade, Neal became obsessed with trying to figure out who this imposter was who was portraying himself as Laurence Caffrey. His brilliant mind began manifesting itself in Neal's inability to sit still and comprehend what was expected of him in school. He was bored with the worksheets, with the expectations of walking robot-like in straight lines for drinks of water or recess. He didn't understand the arbitrary rules set by others largely displayed on the classroom walls above the chalkboards.

Then the phone calls from the local public school worsened. At first the school was concerned about the dark and demented pictures Neal drew of his father and himself. Then, the calls to his mother were ones telling her to come and retrieve her son from school for some behavioral violation.

Marian was no longer intrigued by her son's intelligence but frustrated because leaving work meant less money in her pocket.

And money was tight for the Caffrey family.

Neal was smart enough to comprehend the contradiction. His family sometimes didn't have enough money for bills or food, but there was always the Jim Beam bottle in the brown paper bag in his father's left hand when he barged into their apartment every night.

By the third grade, Neal's school suspension rate for insubordination and un-cooperation had become predictable, which then became problematic for his mother. She was conflicted because she didn't want to see her son physically punished, childcare cost money they didn't have, and she feared what would happen if she held back that information from her husband.

Marian Caffrey worked hard not to raise her hands toward her son. Instead, she used words. She didn't agree with—but also didn't interfere with—her husband's use of corporal punishment, and she didn't understand that words were equally as damaging. There were times, however, that her frustration overtook her sensibility, and she would slap her child or physically force him into his room with fingernails intentionally digging into his arms.

On one particular day in October of Neal's eighth year, Marian had slapped him hard enough across his face to leave a mark for several days. Neal had sat silently in the front seat of their car with his hands holding his face. He had tried every technique possible to concentrate on the worksheets placed squarely on his flip-top school desk, but he just didn't care to draw the lines to match the consonant-vowel-consonant patterns. He didn't understand why leaving the worksheet blank was such a big deal to his teacher. As he sat in their car, feeling the sting on his face, Neal didn't blame his mother for her anger or for slapping him. He knew he was at fault.

"I don't understand you," Marian lamented. "Sometimes I just hate you. You're ruining my life," she confessed to her young son with tears escaping her eyes. She was sorry she had slapped him, but she did hate him for forcing her to use physical force against him and, what she believed, for ruining her life. She had lost her family because of him. She had lost her ability to paint because of him. And now because of him—in her mind—she could lose her husband, too. She didn't want to hurt her own child, but sometimes her frustration levels became too high for her to control.

"I'm sorry," the eight year old Neal Caffrey stammered. The silence between them was deathly.

"Your father will take this up with you when he gets home. I won't protect you anymore," she finally stated as she forced the gear into park and turned the key of the ignition. His mother's words frightened Neal because now he was losing her, too. He lugged his heavy backpack on his small back. It wasn't filled with the school's textbooks but with numerous library books to occupy his time and mind during his two-day suspension. It was in the third grade that the brilliant Neal Caffrey had completely disengaged from school. He was done.

Laurence's drunkenness and abuse continued until Neal left home at the age of 18.

() () () () () () () ()

A/N: Thank you all for reading and commenting. I never thought I would jump in and actually write anything...it's been so long since I've done anything creative. Work and life sometimes consume one's time completely! Anyway, I love White Collar and just wanted to get out of my head this little story that has been floating around for awhile. I have thoroughly enjoyed the numerous pieces I've been reading and reviewing, and I truly do appreciate all of you for including me. Thanks! -Jenny


	3. Son

**Chapter Three: Son **

"Neal," Peter said breaking the silence between them.

"Hmm," Neal responded.

"Where did you go," Peter questioned.

"What…I'm right here," Neal answered. He knew damn well what Peter meant but decided to answer his question literally.

"Talk to me Neal," Peter begged.

Neal jumped up and walked over to the kitchen table where the remainder of the Pinot sat on the table. He emptied the bottle into his glass and took in a mouthful and swallowed.

"You know what I mean. Don't play stupid," Peter shot at him.

Neal moved his eyes to the side, staring at his apartment door that was still ajar. He then closed his eyes, taking in a full breath of air. "I can't…I won't tell you," Neal responded defiantly. He straightened up his back with the increase in testosterone and swallowed in two gulps the wine remaining in his glass.

Peter shook his head, not immediately having the words come to the forefront of his mind. "I saw you flinch. I know you thought I was going to hurt you," Peter stated.

With that, Neal took several steps backward, locking eyes on Peter. His wine consumption was becoming evident to the seasoned FBI Agent who was trying desperately to be the friend—not the FBI Agent—at that present moment. Neal continued to step backwards until he hit the wall. His startled facial expression disclosed his surprise at being as close to the wall as he actually was. Then, losing his balance, Neal allowed himself to slide down the wall into a seated position. "You're not gonna do this Pe..ter," Neal stammered.

"Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can resolve it together. I can help you. I'll protect you," Peter said, getting up to go to his young friend who was slumped over against the wall.

Peter's words and physical proximity to him caused Neal to pull back his head and smack it against the wall. It was louder than he had expected, but the physical pain felt good to him. He pulled his head forward in an attempt to smack it again against the wall, but Peter thrust his hands between Neal's head and the wall. Peter's physical contact pushed an obvious internal button in Neal as he buried his head in his arms that were resting on top of his knees. He began a slight back and forth movement in his upper body.

Peter reassured, "I can help you. I will protect you."

And that was all it took. Tears welled up in Neal's eyes. He forced his hands several times through his hair and over his face. Speaking slowly and softly through his hands, Neal said, "You don't understand…I can't do this….Please, I can't go there."

Peter sat quietly beside his friend, pulling him toward his chest and placing a protective arm over his shoulder. In a few moments, Neal muffled through Peter's shirt, "I feel like I'm gonna to be sick, Peter."

"Okay, let's get you to the bathroom," Peter answered, pulling Neal to his feet and guiding him to the toilet. Peter then lowered Neal down to the toilet. Crouched against the toilet, Neal hugged its side and vomited, heaving several times until silence once again enveloped the small apartment.

"You okay?" Peter asked.

Neal didn't respond, keeping his head level with the rim. Peter looked away.

After several minutes, Neal nodded his head and mumbled a garbled noise. Peter moved forward to help him get up off the floor. Scooping Neal up from underneath his arms and handing him a towel to wipe his mouth, Peter led Neal to the couch and sat beside him. "I know this is hard. I know you don't completely trust me, but we have to talk about this, Neal," Peter calmly and meticulously stated.

Leaning his head against the back of the couch, Neal exhaled deeply and nodded, "Okay…just give me a moment."

Peter continued to sit quietly beside him.

"It's not about trust, Peter," Neal said.

Peter's eyes revealed relief.

Neal's unwillingness to openly share wasn't about trust; it was about not being able to return to the place that had caused him so much pain in his past. He had moved on and simply didn't feel the need to face the ghosts of his past.

It seemed like hours but in reality only five minutes had ticked away. Only the sound of Neal's labored breathing could be heard in the apartment. Peter continued to sit beside him. He studied the young man like he had never truly seen him before. He recognized how beautiful his chiseled facial features truly were and smiled slightly to himself as he understood why people could be so easily sucked in to him. He recognized that he himself was one of those people.

"Hey," Peter broke the silence.

Neal turned toward Peter without lifting his head. His eyes acknowledged Peter's words.

"Let's go for a ride," Peter offered.

"Where to," Neal asked, finally speaking.

"Come on, I'll show you," Peter answered, handing Neal a jacket and waiting for him to put it on before heading to the door. "Is your stomach okay, or do we need to bring a trashcan?" Peter asked.

"I'm okay," Neal responded quietly. His stomach was killing him and the room was jumping a little, but he didn't think Peter needed to know that. It would only give him something else to harp on. After all, he had done this to himself, so he didn't need Peter rubbing that in his face.

"No vomiting in my car," Peter warned in a bantering tone.

They got in Peter's car and started toward his house. After Neal saw where they were going, he raised his head to protest. "Come on Peter…I don't want Elizabeth to see me like this," he stated.

"Like what," Peter bantered in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Neal knew he had been busted. "Nothing…never mind," he answered, psyching himself up for being able to put it all on for Elizabeth. Over the past two years, Neal had thought as Elizabeth as being easy to get over on as he played the role of the calm and cool ex-con-artist-turn-partner-turn-friend.

He put his head back against the Taurus's headrest and closed his eyes. The air was chilly to him, and he shivered slightly.

Peter saw his slight shaking movements and asked, "You cold?"

"Yeah…a little," Neal answered, keeping his head back on the Taurus's headrest.

Peter turned on the heat and flipped the blowers toward his partner and questioned, "Better?"

"Yeah," Neal answered, but his shaking continued, and he still felt cold.

Peter pulled up in front of his house and put the gear into park but left the car running so the heat would continue to warm up his partner.

"Elizabeth and I bought this house when we were first married nine years ago," Peter said looking up toward his house. He turned to see if Neal was still leaning back with closed eyes or if he had turned his head to look at the house.

"I know, Peter. You've already told me that story," Neal interjected with a little attitude in his voice, but he had lifted his head to look in the direction of Peter and Elizabeth's house anyway.

"No…what I want to tell you right now is not necessarily about El and me. I mean, it is and it isn't," Peter answered calmly, forgiving Neal's attitude.

"Sorry," Neal said softly.

"When we were first married, I had just started working on your case in what was called the White Collar Task Force. The hours were long, but El never complained and was always there to listen to me and offer me advice when I was stuck. I shared everything about you with her, so she knows as much about you as I do," Peter said.

Neal nodded, suddenly realizing that Elizabeth knew more about him that he had known.

Peter continued, "But in all my digging…in all my chasing…in everything about you, I could not find anything about you before your 18th birthday. That's a mystery to me. I know Neal Caffrey is your real name, but it's like you don't exist until you're 18. You dropped on me several weeks ago that your dad was a dirty cop. You also said one time that you hadn't finished high school. But I can't get my hands on anything tangible about you until you're 18…no school records…no Juvy records…no nothing."

Neal regretted telling him about his father being a dirty cop, but it was too late and he knew that. Thank God Peter didn't know anything else about him. His earlier life was gritty and dirty, and he had never allowed anyone to completely enter into that aspect of his world…not even Mozzie or Kate. He certainly didn't want to start now.

The Taurus continued to run. The heat blasted on Neal, but he continued to shiver.

"Neal, you have to understand this. I never thought we would become friends. I never thought El and I would feel about you the way we do," Peter's discomfort with his confession was apparent to Neal.

Neal closed his eyes to avoid even seeing Peter in his peripheral vision.

Peter persisted, "El and I decided after a few years of marriage that we probably wouldn't have children. It just wasn't happening, and we made a conscious decision not to worry about it and to just love one another with all of our hearts."

This information was new to Neal. He had never really thought about them and children.

"So you see," Peter said, "You're the closest I have to a son."

At that, Neal could feel the blood draining from his face. He flashed back to his father and the sarcastic way he spoke the word _son_ when he was drunk.

But Peter's _son_ was not the same _son_ his father had spoken. Peter's _son_ was honest and affectionate.

Neal focused on his breathing so he wouldn't lose it right there in Peter's car in front of him. Nodding his head back and forth and biting his lip, Neal began, "When I was 18, I left home for good. I haven't seen my father since then. It's been twelve years now."

Peter sighed, recognizing that Neal was struggling about allowing him to enter into his dark and secret world. He wanted to ask Neal why he had left home. He wanted to know about Neal's mother, but he maintained his patience with Neal's slow timing. He acknowledged how difficult this had to be for the young man. "Do you want to go in for some coffee or back to your place," Peter questioned.

"It doesn't really matter," Neal answered, "But I don't want Elizabeth to see me like this."

Peter then recognized that Neal was not talking about his intoxication, and he respected Neal's right to continue his façade with El.

Neal didn't know that El had been able from the very beginning to see through him completely. She could read him far better than Peter ever could, and she had been the one who had suggested to Peter that Neal was possibly an abused child. Peter didn't want to believe that about his young partner, and he didn't want Neal to know that El had these suspicions.

"She won't be home for awhile. Let's go get some leftovers to eat," Peter offered.

He turned off the ignition and got out of the car.

Neal followed behind him, feeling an enormous weight on his shoulders. He struggled with what to do and how he could possibly reveal the sewage of his childhood to Peter. He grappled with how much Peter really needed to know. But most importantly, he couldn't bear the thought of Peter treating him like a victim. He had been resilient; he had survived.

The chilly air slapped Neal in the face and caused him to shiver even harder. It wasn't really that cold, so Peter realized it must be a combination of nerves and alcohol that was causing his friend to tremble.

"Sit at the table and I'll bring you a cup of coffee to warm you up if you'd like," Peter suggested.

Neal obliged, realizing that Peter was seeing him shiver.

"Are you hungry," Peter asked.

Neal honestly couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything.

Not waiting for an answer, Peter made sandwiches and put chips in a bowl. He poured Neal a large cup of coffee with cream and no sugar, the way he liked it. Putting the items down on the table in front of him, Peter noticed the strangest expression on Neal's face. "Is something wrong," Peter wondered aloud.

"Why are you doing this," Neal asked.

"Doing what," Peter replied.

"Being so nice to me right now. Giving me food and coffee…" Neal grumbled.

"Huh?" Peter questioned.

Neal continued on without any hesitation, "…Wanting to know about my life. Why is it so important? What does that have to do with anything between us?" Neal's voice disclosed his apparent agitation.

"Neal," Peter answered, "Understanding your life has everything to do with us. I care for you. Don't you get that? I love you like a son," Peter responded.

"Oh," Neal said softly, shaking his head slightly, shocked by Peter's words. He hadn't really gotten that. He knew they had a bond between them, and he had grown to love Peter as a friend and father figure but had never really known exactly how Peter regarded him.

Peter's words penetrated his heart and mind. He struggled to keep down the emotions that were rising up inside him. At that point, he realized that their shared bond was actually deeper than he had been cognizant of. Most of the people in his life had used him—had put conditions on their love toward him. But now, here was Peter…wanting nothing except to just help him find his way.

He determined at that moment that he would try to let Peter enter into his world.

"I just don't even know where to start," Neal confided.

"Just start somewhere," Peter answered. "Okay…start by telling me why you left home at 18."


	4. Russian Roulette

**Chapter Four: Russian Roulette**

"When I was eight years old, my father began bringing home his new partner. He instructed me to call this man _Uncle Austin_ even though he was no blood relation to me. I hated calling him my uncle, but I was too afraid of my father to disobey. So, I did as I was told," Neal said then took a bite of his sandwich and a long sip of coffee, wrapping the fingers of both hands around the mug to warm them.

Detective Austin Hanks had been with the local police department for 13 years. He was a large man with pock marks on his face and a tattoo of the Madonna on his forearm. Officer Laurence Caffrey's original partner had died in the line of duty, and there had always been unfounded speculation that Laurence was somehow involved because he was the only officer left standing. No one wanted to ride with Officer Caffrey, and he received much strife from fellow officers. Laurence went through a string of partners in the five and a half years between the shoot-out and Detective Hanks joining alongside him. They became fast friends and partners—in more than one way.

"You know it doesn't have to be this way," Detective Hanks said as they ate together at the Caffrey table. Marian served them, and Neal hid out in his room. They scooped up large spoonfuls of chili and shared the bottle of Jim Beam between them.

"Meaning," Laurence asked.

"Meaning…okay…think about it this way: we put our lives on the line every day and bring home the most disgraceful paychecks at the end of the month. We can resolve that problem. We can get back what they owe us and no one needs to be the wiser," Austin said. He waited a few moments for his new partner to take in what he was saying.

"How ya figure that," Laurence questioned.

"Come on, man. Think about it. A door accidently left unlocked. A few TV's missing here and some VCR's missing there. The market is hot for these items. Maybe a little cash goes missing from the back room safe. The store has insurance, so no one really gets hurt," Austin informed Laurence.

Laurence smiled wickedly, nodding up and down at the realization that this was the solution to his family's financial problems. He kicked himself for not thinking of this for himself.

"Hey, where's that boy of yours," Austin said loudly.

Neal could hear Austin's question from his room but chose to ignore it and stay put. He knew he didn't stand a chance if together they were to raise their hands against him. Uncle Austin was even bigger than his father.

"Boy," Laurence screamed.

Nothing.

Laurence didn't miss a beat, "Don't make me come in after you!"

Still nothing.

"Where's that boy at," Laurence directed at Marian. She was frightened for her son but obliged his question.

"In his room," Marian answered.

"Boy, if you don't get your ass out here immediately, you're not gonna have one to sit on for a month," Laurence bellowed.

Neal was terrified and stuck. His body wouldn't get off the floor where he had been sitting.

"Go get that bastard now," Laurence screamed at Marian. She jumped and bounded down the hall toward his room.

She found him in the corner with his knees drawn up. His eyes caught hers as she entered his room. His fear was physically evident, but he said nothing to her as she grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Now don't aggravate him. You be a good boy, okay," she instructed. Her fingernails dug into his arm.

Standing before his father and the man whom he had been instructed to call Uncle Austin, Neal's heart thumped loudly through his chest.

"You know, I've been thinking," Austin said.

"Yeah," Laurence answered.

"He's perfect…he's perfect," Austin repeated.

Neal could feel his blood pressure drop as his fingers grew cold and there was a swishing sound in his ears. Oh God, he thought. Perfect for what, but he didn't have the nerve to ask.

Detective Austin Hanks patted the young boy several times on his face. "Just look at him…he's perfect. He's a smart little fucker, and he's small for his age. We can use both to our advantage. This is the best idea I've had yet," Austin excitedly announced.

He went on to share his idea with his partner, the boy's father. "We can train him. Think about it. He can slip in and out of places that we can't. I can teach him to lift a wallet and extract the money and cards long before the owner will ever miss it. We can go to the next level with this little fellow," Austin laughed, smacking young Neal on his back a little too hard, forcing Neal to bump into the table and knock the Beam bottle over, spilling its contents on the chrome kitchen table.

Laurence grabbed the bottle, turning it back up; he then shoved the boy's face into the bourbon puddle that had started running toward the edge of the table. Neal strangled through his inhale of bourbon that burned up through his nose and into his mouth. Austin grabbed Laurence's hand and pulled it back so the boy could be released from the alcohol he was being forced to suck in through his mouth and nose.

"Hey man, there's no need for that," Austin said to Laurence. Tears ran down the boy's face—not because he was crying but because the bourbon burned and stung his nostrils and throat. He coughed several times and wanted to spit. He swallowed instead.

"Don't you ever fuckin' tell me how to raise my boy," Laurence shouted. The two, remaining seated at the table, were at a standoff. For a few moments, Neal thought his savior had arrived.

"Hell, man, I don't give a shit what you do with the little bastard…just so he's able to be trained," Austin responded.

Neal's heart sank. It was too good to be true.

Laurence forced Neal's face back down into the bourbon—just to make a point to Austin as to who was in charge in the Caffrey household. Neal sucked in the alcohol and tried to swallow it quickly in an attempt to minimize the amount of burning. Laurence then backhanded the boy and commanded him to go back to his room. "You'll get the belt later," Laurence nefariously hollered at the boy, "I just wanna finish my chili before it gets any colder. Now get the hell out of here."

Neal went as quickly as he could to his room and used his bedspread to wipe the remaining alcohol off his face. His nose and mouth hurt and burned. As promised, Neal got the belt later.

"Oh my God," Peter stammered.

Neal said nothing in response. He took another bite of sandwich and finished his coffee. He stood to pour himself another cup.

Peter looked up at him, still in disbelief. He had no idea how a father could do that to his own child. Peter's dad had been an amazing father, so he in no way could grasp what Neal was telling him. There were no words appropriate to the situation that were immediately coming into Peter's mind that he could speak aloud.

"Just getting some more coffee," Neal said as he recognized the inquisitive look on Peter's face.

Peter just nodded at him and looked down at the crust that remained from his sandwich. He looked to see that Neal had only eaten a few bites of his sandwich but remembered that Neal always used good manners and wouldn't eat and talk at the same time.

When Neal returned to the table, Peter stated, "Go ahead and eat. You've got to be hungry."

Neal acknowledged he was and took another bite. Peter ate a few chips.

After a few moments, Neal looked Peter dead-on in the eyes and stated, "Don't feel sorry for me. I'm okay. I've been okay about this for a long time now. I made it out and made a life of my own. I'm okay."

"Neal," Peter responded, "I can't possibly imagine that you haven't in some way been affected by this."

Neal knew that Peter didn't know the half of it. He wondered what would be swimming around in Peter's mind if he knew the whole story. He also believed that Peter would never think of him the same way if he knew everything. No one knew everything, and Neal had intended to keep it that way.

Peter saw Neal slightly rocking himself back and forth in his chair. He recognized that movement as something Neal did to comfort himself. "When did the abuse start," Peter questioned, knowing that that question was like dropping a bomb between them.

"Jesus, you don't mess around," Neal answered.

Peter just continued to look at him in his eyes to gauge Neal's physical reactions and hints that he was crafting his language to tell half-truths and only the bits and pieces that he wanted Peter to know. Neal appeared to be physically uncomfortable as his body language shifted into defensive mode.

"It doesn't really matter, Peter," Neal responded.

"Okay…how about this Uncle Austin. So he was the one who trained you? And you were…what…eight years old when you started? And your mother allowed that," Peter questioned.

"Yup, my mother loved my father. I had ruined her life," Neal acknowledged, remembering that October day in their car.

"You were a child…you were their child," Peter said, not understanding or having been privy to the early events in Neal's life. "How could you say such a thing," Peter questioned.

"I know I ruined her life. Her family dissociated with her because she got pregnant out of wedlock. I have never, to this day, even met any of my mother's family," Neal declared, leaving out the part that his mother had told him on several occasions that he was to blame for ruining her life. "She was an aspiring artist who by day had to serve coffee to agitated and impatient customers at the local café and by the evening had to serve a hot and ready meal to my mean and ungrateful father and his partner…in crime…literally," Neal laughed at his pun. His facial expression dropped as he continued, "I know my being born ruined her life."

"That's crazy…it doesn't even make sense! How can you say that," Peter irritably stated.

The tension in his voice caused Neal to shift back in his chair a little more.

"I was difficult for her to handle. I hated school and didn't do well conforming to its rules and expectations. I got in trouble a lot because I guess I just didn't understand how to play the game when I was little," Neal said.

Peter smiled, realizing that he wasn't shocked at that statement. Life for Neal, Peter deduced, was all about playing the game. At some point in his life he had learned that and was able to use the game to his full advantage. For some reason, though, he must not have ever learned how to play the educational game because he didn't manage to make it out with a diploma. Peter was baffled at the paradox: here sat one of the most intelligent people he had ever met, and he didn't even have a high school diploma.

After some silence, Neal conceded, "Yeah, Uncle Austin and my dad started training me for work when I was eight."

"Oh my God," Peter responded in revulsion, "You were just a child."

"Peter, if you're going to hear this stuff, then you're going to have to be ready…you're going to have to toughen up," Neal advised.

Peter found that statement amusing but unsettling. "Okay," he responded.

"Because you have to remember that I'm okay…I really am," Neal offered.

Peter wasn't really sure if Neal was trying to fool himself or Peter with that statement. If he was indeed trying to fool himself, then he decided to let Neal continue to believe that. It was safer that way for right now.

"So they trained you to break into stores and steal appliances," Peter asked.

"No, I was just taught to slip through heating vents and jimmy locks open. They did the stealing. All I got out of the deal was not being smacked around so much. They needed me 100 percent, so my father's physical abuse lessened during the times of their robberies," Neal acknowledged.

"So how long did this last," Peter questioned.

Neal sat back with a smile, "Oh my God, for several years. It was a sweet little set up they created. Eventually, Uncle Austin got tired of the game and wanted to move on to bigger and better things."

"Why," Peter questioned.

That question confused Neal. "I don't know…he just wanted more money, more danger, more something…I'm really not sure," Neal stated.

"Oh," Peter said, taking a sip of coffee.

"So we then moved into cons," Neal said with a broadened smile.

The truth was Neal enjoyed the cons. He was about 12 years old at the time they started, and learning the art of becoming a confidence man was pleasurable to him. For the first time in his life, Neal felt wanted and needed. He got to pretend to be someone other than Neal Caffrey. It never occurred to him during this time that he was in fact just being used by the adults in his life. All he knew was that the man he called Uncle Austin was proud of him and seemed to enjoy his company and enjoy teaching him the tricks of the trade. Neal became fascinated with the deception and twisted language of the con. He lived for Uncle Austin's broad smiles when he would successfully emerge with the fine Italian leather wallets inconspicuously lifted off wealthy business men. "Uncle Austin taught me everything I know about the art of the con and thievery," Neal smiled as he appeared to be thinking about the man whom he called Uncle Austin.

"So what was your father doing during this time," Peter asked.

The corners of Neal's mouth fell down immediately, and his eyes widened. "It wasn't good," he acknowledged.

The relationship Neal began developing with Detective Austin Hanks incited a worsening relationship between himself and his father. Laurence could see that Austin came to revere his young son, and he didn't like it. Neal was his property—nothing more than a tool in his belt. He began to feel resentful of Neal's involvement, but he also knew that Neal was an essential part of the equation.

To punish his son between jobs, Laurence would often lock Neal in his room withholding food and beverage. In the stillness of the late evening hours, Laurence would retrieve his son and enact physical retributions on him until Neal could no longer stand up by himself.

The emotions inside Peter were brewing, and he questioned his ability to continue listening without displaying his anger and sorrow. He knew Neal would stop talking altogether if he saw that Peter was getting angry or upset, so he swallowed down his emotions. Calmly, Peter stated, "I just can't fathom this, Neal."

Neal paused for several moments. "Remember…Peter," he started to say.

"Yeah, I know, you're okay…I heard you," Peter answered. Peter just shook his head and breathed in a large breath of air.

"A couple of years later he actually got worse. I'm not really sure why…except he seemed jealous that Uncle Austin liked me...I guess," Neal interjected.

Two years into the con game jobs when Neal was 14 years old, Laurence's physical violence toward his son upgraded to mental cruelty.

Leaning against the wall several inches away from the stench of his father's soured bourbon breath, Neal was frozen in fear. He said nothing. He stood statuesque.

"Take it, you little bastard," Laurence screamed at Neal, forcing his Ruger .357 handgun into his son's visibly shaking hands. The gun was a lot heavier than Neal expected and his hand drooped down.

Neal stood there holding the handgun as if it were a snake that would lunge forward at him.

Laurence continued, "Okay, so now we're gonna play a little game. Do you feel lucky?"

Silence.

"What…I didn't hear anything you little shit! You damn well better answer me when I ask you a question," Laurence screamed directly into Neal's ear.

"Yes…sir," Neal answered.

"Yes sir, what? Yes, you feel lucky…or yes you understand that you had better answer me when I address you," Laurence screeched again in his ear.

"Both, I guess, sir," Neal answered.

"That's a good boy. So, here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna spin the chamber and then point the gun right here," Laurence instructed, thrusting the .357 into Neal's right temple.

Neal's eyes widened so large that Laurence became amused. He delighted in seeing his young son petrified. Marian took several steps forward. She felt conflicted by her emotions. Neal, after all, was her only child and she loved him even though for years she believed she had nothing inside of herself to give him. Austin sat across the table from Laurence witnessing this malevolence. He sat silently then poured himself another shot. He knew what his partner was doing was wrong, but he also knew that it was in his and Neal's best interest not to get directly involved.

"That's right…you spin it like this," Laurence said physically moving Neal's fingers on the chamber to make it spin. He then physically forced Neal's immobile hand to hold the .357 up to his temple.

Neal felt as though he would pass out. Tears streamed down his face. He could see his father's mouth moving and feel him moving his fingers and hand. He was a rag doll puppet under his father's control. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal could see his mother move forward.

"No…don't you dare," she uttered toward her husband.

With no hesitation, Laurence took the gun, still in Neal's hands, and slapped Marian across the mouth with it. Neal's index finger was still attached to the trigger.

Laurence Caffrey had never taken up his hand against his wife. At that moment, she stood before him with blood dripping from her split lip. Neal panicked and ran to his room. Marian burst into tears and sobbed over the kitchen sink, blood from her split lip being absorbed into the kitchen dish towel. In all of the years she had loved and taken care of her husband, he had reciprocated by never striking her.

"Here, have a drink," Austin offered Laurence.

Glancing around the room to see where his wife and son were, Laurence took the shot and swallowed it in one gulp, slamming the shot glass onto the table.

"Hit me again," Laurence ordered Austin.

"Okay…then we can talk about the next gig…okay…Laurence," Austin said, trying to distract his partner away from the whereabouts of his wife and son.

"The next gig…we got one," Laurence questioned.

"Sure do," Austin answered. They both swallowed another shot of Beam and began plotting out the next con game.

Neal lived to hear the two men planning their next con. He knew the con would allow further training, proper food and beverage, and a reprieve from violence. The con game became his lifeline to living.

That night Neal's mother left her husband and son, retreating somewhere unknown to them both. She left no note…no nothing. She left their apartment with only her purse and the clothes on her back. She was just gone.

Neal was sad about losing his mother. He had loved her very much. She had, however, been figuratively gone for so long that her physical presence didn't even linger in their haunted apartment after her escape.

When realizing that he may not ever see his mother again, Neal sobbed in his bedroom. He wanted to die. His father didn't bother him for days, and by that time, a new normal was being established that didn't involve Marian in the equation.

The new equation involved food from takeout menus, the two partners, Neal, and a nightly game of Russian Roulette.

It was several days into his father's new mentally tortuous game that Austin confided in Neal that there weren't any bullets in the gun and to just play along. He promised the boy that he would also teach him the art of shooting a gun in case he ever needed to pull one against his father. He made good on his promise. He trained Neal in marksmanship unbeknownst to Laurence.

Neal survived this way for several years until he was 17—when his life turned in a different direction.

To the present day, Neal's sharp-shooting abilities have never alleviated the fear of guns he developed from that first night of Russian Roulette. Also to this day, he has never seen nor heard from his mother again.


	5. Pigeon Drop

**Chapter Five: Pigeon Drop**

The porterhouse steak and baked sweet potato were too large for Neal to finish. He had already eaten the salad and a roll. He wasn't a big eater and had grown accustomed to skipping meals throughout the years, which showed in his lean frame. He had taken up weight training at the insistence of Uncle Austin so he could be strong enough to carry his own weight—so to speak. Moving the meat around his plate, he hated to waste it but had no additional room in his stomach and didn't want to make himself sick. It was delicious; the restaurant's ratings had been accurate. On the other side of the bar sat his Uncle Austin dressed nicely in a suit and tie. They made no eye contact. Uncle Austin had no problem putting away every morsel of food on his plate, Neal observed.

Motioning his hands toward the bartender, Neal indicated that he was ready for his check.

"Do ya want a doggy bag," the man asked.

"Uh…no…thanks," Neal answered, fumbling around with his back pockets looking for his wallet.

The man stood and stared at Neal, his facial expression growing more and more disgusted as Neal continued patting down his pockets and coming up empty handed.

"Don't tell me," the man stated, "You don't have any money."

Neal smiled, "I do…but…my wallet doesn't seem to be in my pocket. I must have left it at home."

"You've got to be kidding me," the man gruffly stated. "That's the damn oldest trick in the book, kid."

"No…I…have money…I swear," Neal timidly stated to him looking at the man with the sweetest, most sincere expression he could muster up.

"Yeah, I've heard that shit before," the man said, grabbing Neal by the back of his shirt. "I should have known. You don't look like you carry around 50 bucks for a meal. Hell, you don't even look like you have five bucks to your name."

"I promise," Neal begged, "My grandpa died and left me a little money. I have money."

The man slightly loosened his grip on the back of Neal's shirt.

"Here," Neal said thrusting his right hand toward the man. "He left me this ring, too."

The man looked down at Neal's hand.

"I think these are gold nuggets and that a diamond. My grandpa lived in Alaska most of his life. It's probably not worth too much, but my meal was…what…$45? It's gotta be worth more than that. Maybe you could hold my grandpa's ring while I go home to get my wallet," Neal offered, handing the man the supposed antique Rail Design gold nugget ring.

"This better not be no scam," the man said, tightening his grip on the back of Neal's shirt.

"No, sir," Neal answered, displaying the most innocent expression in his eyes. He knew that if the man would just look into his eyes that he could trap him. The man was looking him up and down and had not yet locked eyes with Neal.

"Come on, Frank," a woman's voice drifted out from behind the bar. The woman emerged, wiping her hands on a bar towel and placing it on the counter before walking over to where Neal and the man she called Frank were standing.

Frank just looked at her.

"He looks like a good kid," the woman said, looking directly into Neal's eyes.

Neal knew that he was sealing the deal now.

"Yes ma'am, I am. I've never stolen anything in my life. I just accidentally left my wallet at home," Neal continued. The woman looked younger than Frank but had that hard-working look in her eyes and on her hands.

"Okay, give me that damn ring. You better get back here in 30 minutes or I'm calling the law," the man threatened.

"Yes, sir….I will," Neal answered. He then scurried out the front door.

"Liv, if this is a scam, then you're washing the bar glasses for a month," Frank challenged.

"Oh come on, Frank, he looked like he didn't have a mean bone in his body," Liv answered him, smacking him over the head with the bar towel. Have a little faith. He'll be back. You'll see," Liv answered, picking up the towel and retreating to the kitchen behind the bar.

Austin looked up from his empty apple pie plate. "May I see that ring," he asked Frank, putting money down to pay his check, which included a hefty tip. Frank glanced down at the stack of bills.

"Sure," Frank answered, handing the ring to Austin.

Austin sniggered.

"Do you know something I don't," Frank asked.

"I can't be for certain without double checking some books, but I think this ring is an antique Alaskan gold nugget ring," Austin said. Then moving his hand up and down, he stated, "It's pretty heavy, too. I bet this ring is worth over $5,000. Like I said, I can't be certain, but I've seen them before in some of my estate books.

Frank stared wide eyed.

"Listen, I have to go to a meeting. Here's my card," Austin said, handing to Frank his phony business card that identified him as an estate lawyer. "Do me a favor, please. When that kid gets back, have him call me at this number. I can help him locate reputable appraisers and antique dealers," Austin said in a professional manner, writing his cell phone number on the back of the business card. He used his real number and planned to continue playing an estate lawyer in case the couple called him so he wouldn't be identified as part of the scam. He knew that the only call he might receive from them would be one telling him that the ring was worthless and that the kid had scammed them.

"Okay," Frank agreed.

Austin left, and Frank stood holding the ring and business card, contemplating his fate.

"Liv," he hollered toward the back kitchen.

"Yeah," she hollered back.

"Do you feel like a little investment," he asked, still in a raised voice as she had not yet entered the bar area.

"What do you mean," she asked as she came into the bar.

"That suit sitting over there was an estate lawyer who said he thought this ring was worth over $5,000," Frank excitedly stated.

"So…the ring belongs to that kid, Frank," Liv answered.

"Well, we could get it from him. I mean buy it, Liv," Frank said, seeing the disgusted look on her face.

"Frank, come on. He said it belonged to his grandpa. Just give it back when he comes to settle up with us," Liv implored.

"Come on, baby. We could actually make a nice little profit. We could go to those Cayman Islands you've always been talking about," Frank negotiated.

"Do whatever you want. He may not even return…much less sell you the damn thing," Liv answered.

Ten minutes later Neal returned as promised with several minutes to spare. He caught Frank's eyes from behind the bar and nodded at him, pushing upward a fifty dollar bill toward Frank's eyesight.

"Hey, kid, I've been thinking. You look like you could actually use the money. Your meal's on the house, okay," Frank offered.

Neal responded, "What? No, sir…my daddy always taught me to pay for everything I get."

"Really, it's okay, kid. You didn't even eat half of it, anyway. Wasn't it good," Frank asked.

"Oh, yeah. It was just huge," Neal answered, still holding on to the bill.

"Ya know…I kinda like that ring of your grandpa's. I've always wanted to go to Alaska, ya know…but this restaurant keeps me tied down seven days a week," Frank said.

"I'm sorry," Neal responded.

"But anyway, I was thinking…how 'bout you sellin' this ring to me," Frank asked, looking into Neal's eyes.

"No, sir…I can't do that. My grandpa gave me that ring in his will. I know it's not worth too much, but it was my grandpa's…and I loved him," Neal said, embellishing the story a little more. He even brought tears into his steely blue eyes.

For a brief moment, Frank almost felt sorry for the young man. Quickly brought back to the reality of the situation, Frank offered, "I'll give you $2,000 for that ring. It's probably not worth that, but you look like you could use the money. I'm a good Christian man, ya know?"

Neal acted as though he was mulling over the deal. After a moment, he stated, "I just can't."

"Okay," Frank upped the ante, "I'll give ya $2,500…and that's my final offer."

"Oh my God…I really could use that kind of money for college next year. My folks are broke and I want to go to college," Neal responded.

Frank raised his eyebrows. Liv said nothing. She couldn't understand her husband's insistence on having that ring, and she felt sorry for the kid for her husband deceiving him. She knew from experience that nothing in life was free or easy.

"Okay," Neal said. "But I'd like cash…no checks. The bank would frown on a kid like me having a check that size."

"No problem," Frank answered. He went into his backroom office and emerged with a thick envelope and opened it up for Neal to see that what was inside was actually 25 Benjamins and not cut up newspaper.

Neal calmly took the envelope and gave one last look at his supposed grandpa's antique Alaskan gold nugget ring and stated, "Take good care of it, okay?"

"Don't worry, kid, I will," Frank answered.

Neal thrust through the restaurant doors and into the street with the envelope in his jacket pocket and the fifty dollar bill still in his hand. His smile was expansive across his face. Turning the corner, he saw Uncle Austin's car and waved it down.

"Did you do good, kid," Austin asked.

Neal responded by flashing the envelope.

"How many Benjamins," Austin inquired.

"25," Neal answered.

"Shit kid! When you go after grand larceny, you go after in a big way. I'm proud of you," Austin yelled.

They rode several blocks before Austin spoke again, "Got a proposition for you, kid."

Neal answered, "Yeah?"

"Tell your ole man they didn't go for it, and you and I can split it up. I'll take $2,000—to make it worth my while—and you can have $500," Austin propositioned.

"No way, man. He's about killed me for much less. If I did that, then I'm all but hammering the nails into my own coffin," Neal answered, shaking his head from side to side.

"I can back your play, kid. Trust me. I can be pretty convincing, too. Think about it. That's enough money that you could leave this hell-hole and start over somewhere else away from that mean bastard who calls himself your father. If you don't get out soon, then one day you're not going to walk away from that gun held to your temple," Austin stated.

Neal considered what his Uncle Austin was saying. He seemed concerned, but Neal was confused as to why his Uncle Austin would actually encourage him to leave their con-team. He thought Uncle Austin needed him, but he had known this man for nine years now and trusted him probably more than anyone else in his life. If Uncle Austin was encouraging him to leave the team, he probably should consider that recommendation.

"You're gonna back my play? You promise," Neal tentatively asked.

"Kid, you can trust me," Austin answered.

They devised a story to tell Laurence that the couple didn't go for the scam and had given Neal the ring back when he returned to settle up his tab. Austin would reinforce the story by embellishing it with fabricated pieces of the conversation between the couple after Neal had left. Austin knew that Laurence would not question him; it was the perfect story.

Neal received an empty Beam bottle thrown against his back for his incompetence in not getting the couple to buy his con. The pain shot through Neal's ribs, but he was too excited about the five Benjamins hiding in his shoe to think too much about the pain.

"So, did you and _Uncle Austin_ get away with it," Peter questioned, adding a sarcastic tone to Detective Austin Hanks' name.

Neal noticed the tone and ambiguously answered, "Well, yes and no."

Peter sat back and awaited Neal's explanation.


	6. Beat Down

**Chapter Six: Beat-Down**

Two weeks after the successful pigeon drop con at the bar where Neal and Austin had scored $2,500, Laurence and Austin were preparing to leave the station for the day. They walked by a fellow officer's desk where a stack of sketches of suspects lay ready to be sent to the local newspaper for assistance from the general public. On the top was unmistakably Neal Caffrey, who was unidentified but wanted for scamming a local couple out of $2,500.

At first all color drained out of Laurence's face. Then, as rage set in, his face turned a brilliant shade of red and his lips pursed outward to reveal his dissonance. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill that little bastard," Laurence squalled to Austin through gritted teeth.

"Be cool," Austin responded composedly. "We can get to the bottom of this. Come on, let's go. We can stop by the liquor store first. Go and get your shit out of your locker, and then we can get out of here."

After Laurence huffed away, Austin went to their captain with the sketch of Neal in his hand. "Captain, this is Caffrey's boy. You all better get someone over there to get that boy before Laurence gets home or else we'll be calling the coroner," Austin warned.

By the time Laurence and Austin had arrived at the apartment, Neal had already been picked up by the police. He went willingly and without incident. He figured that if his father already knew, then it was in his best interest to go where it was safer—and jail was certainly safer than facing the wrath of Laurence Caffrey.

Due to his age and because he was a cop's son and therefore not considered a flight risk, Neal was told to call his father to come and get him after a grueling six hours spent in the conference room with two cops. He made a full confession of his crime but knew enough to answer the questions as succinctly as possible. It never occurred to Neal to give the officers the full story. He took full blame and responsibility—not because he was trying to be a martyr but because he knew that ratting out his cop father and his cop father's detective partner would ultimately be worse than taking all of the blame himself.

His mind was frozen, and he couldn't process what to do. Calling his father was truly a death sentence. "Can I call my Uncle Austin," Neal timidly asked the cops.

"Son, you have to get this over with. You gotta call your father. He's gotta come in here and sign off on this paperwork," the officer in charge stated. He felt somewhat sorry for the kid because his father had been called earlier and asked to be with his son while the officers questioned him. Officer Caffrey had bluntly and matter-of-factly stated, "Let him hang." The officer in charge knew that Laurence Caffrey was a difficult man, but also felt that what Neal had done was serious, so sympathy for the young man only went so far.

"Dad…can you…come down…to the…precinct to get me? They're…ummm…letting me…umm… go…until the court date…next month," Neal stammered. His heart pounded so loudly that he wondered if a 17 year old could actually have a heart attack.

His father only breathed into the receiver and then hung up on Neal without saying anything. Neal sat in the chair beside the officer's desk observing the heating vents and other exits out of the room. Nothing.

Thirty minutes later Laurence Caffrey showed up at the precinct with Austin behind him. It was already past midnight. After signing some forms, Laurence turned to leave without saying anything to anyone. His face maintained the brilliant shade of red.

Austin made eye contact with Neal and motioned for him to follow his father out. Neal wasn't sure if his legs were strong enough to get him out to his father's car. Uncle Austin held onto the back of his shirt to keep him steady on his feet. Miraculously, he made it to the car but struggled with the handle, so he stood on the sidewalk pulling on the handle, mulling over his options. He could just run, but he had nowhere else to go.

Austin stepped forward and opened up the door and nodded at Neal to hop in. He shut the door after Neal got seated. Neal looked at him through the smudged back seat window, but Austin wasn't making eye contact any longer.

No one said a word back to the Caffrey apartment. Neal had resigned himself to death. If he were able to escape death, Neal knew there had to be some divine intervention.

The backs of Neal's hands and fingers felt the full force of the punches as he tried to block some of them to his face. He felt the force of the wall on the back of his body as his father slammed him into it and screamed unmercifully down into Neal's face. Laurence's words were slurred with anger and alcohol. He punched Neal brutally in his stomach, causing him to gasp and double over to the floor.

Neal waited for unconsciousness, divine intervention, or both. In total fatigue, he stayed down but knew he should get up because he feared his father would kick him in the ribs with his Timberlands.

Neal's fears were realized, and he could feel something pop and his breathing get more difficult. His face hurt to move. His nose was bloody, and his right eye was swollen shut.

Yanking Neal to his feet, Laurence looked like a wild animal. Neal had never seen his facial expression quite so sadistic. Neal stood with his right arm wrapped around his chest, leaning his left arm on the table to support his body so he could stand. Neal saw it coming in slow motion before he actually felt the impact.

Holding an empty Jim Beam bottle, Laurence looked like a baseball player trying to hit a home run. Winding back his arm, he hit Neal squarely on his brow. Blood and glass flew in all directions as Neal hit the floor. Finally Austin couldn't stand there any longer watching this horrific one-sided brawl. He knew he had to do something to get Laurence away from Neal—even if it were just a distraction for a few minutes.

"Hey, man, let's just get the money back…okay," Austin said knowing full well that Neal only had $500 of the $2,500. But, Austin reasoned, maybe looking for the money would divert Laurence's attention long enough for him to be ready to continue hitting the Beam and possibly forget about beating Neal any longer.

"Where is it, you fuckin' bastard," Laurence screamed down at Neal, spitting on his back.

Neal said nothing. His mind was cloudy. He didn't know what to do or say because he knew he only had his part of the money.

"Where is it, mother-fucker," Laurence shouted, kicking Neal on the shins of his left foot.

The pain was overwhelming, but his mind wouldn't give in to unconsciousness. He wanted it to, but for some reason, it continued to be fully cognizant of everything happening around him.

"_Les Miserables_…page…154," Neal whispered.

Neal could hear shouts and things breaking and being thrown against the wall in his bedroom as his father hunted for the book. He feared what would happen when his father found the book only to realize that just a portion of the money was hiding within. He prayed for a miracle. He prayed that Austin would come clean. He didn't know what to do, and he didn't want to die. Neal could feel his breathing became more labored. He lay serenely on the floor…crying, begging, praying.

Neal then awoke to hear his father and Austin sitting at the kitchen table. He was paralyzed with fear-of his father and of the pain-so he lay still and silent. His father's blood-alcohol level had to be way above the limit for any functioning human being. He saw Austin sitting across from his father, pouring shot after shot into the double shot glass, nodding at Laurence's rantings.

The next time Neal awoke, Austin was scooping him up off the floor. His father was leaned over the table, snoring loudly. It was 4:00 in the morning. "Come on, kid, I'm gonna take you to the hospital. I think he broke one of your ribs. I can hear you wheezing from the kitchen," Austin whispered into Neal's ear.

As Austin picked up Neal from the floor, Neal wanted to scream in pain, but he whimpered loudly.

"Shhhh," Austin warned, "Don't let him hear you."

Tears fell unmercifully from his swollen eyes. He hadn't died, and Austin was going to get him out of there—away from his uncontrollable, demented father—away from the ghosts of his life.

Gently carrying the young man to his car, Austin stretched Neal out in the backseat of his car and quietly shut the door—even though he knew Laurence would never hear it in his drunken stupor . When they arrived at the hospital, Austin ran in to get some help. He informed the intake nurse in the emergency room that he was an off-duty police officer who found this kid lying out in the street. He told them that he didn't know the boy's name or where he lived and thought it was a random beat-down. Austin had lifted Neal's wallet so they wouldn't have any way to identify who he was. He nodded to the semi-conscious Neal that he didn't know this kid's identity but would investigate.

"Now play along…long enough to get you healed up real good. Sometimes a beat-down causes amnesia," Austin suggested into Neal's ear.

Neal nodded slightly at him to let Austin know that he understood his latest assignment.

"I'll keep checking on you and get you out of here when you're ready," Austin reassured.

It was 26 days into his hospital stay that Austin informed the hospital staff that Neal had to leave. Austin had fabricated the most glorious story about this poor homeless kid being beaten by a pack of street kids for his wallet. Austin was convincing, being the hero when he would keep the hospital staff informed about his progress in tracking down and arresting the punks who had done this. His champion status elevated higher when he informed the nurses that he was going to be the foster father to this poor waif. He brought Neal a clean set of clothes and informed the staff that Neal was needed to testify against the street punks who had almost killed him.

With bandages and taped up ribs, Neal—in actuality—was headed to his own court case to face the couple he had conned out of $2,500. It was unspoken between Neal and Austin that Neal would continue the lie and take full responsibility for the con gone wrong. Neal never asked about his father, and Austin volunteered nothing.

"You know I can't be there with you," Austin informed Neal.

"I know," Neal answered. He had hoped his Uncle Austin would go with him. Neal was frightened to be in the courtroom by himself with only his court appointed lawyer by his side. He feared what was going to happen to him.

His face still sported the remnants of bruises, and the bandage at the hairline above his brow was visible when the wind blew Neal's bangs out of his face. He moved slowly as the pain in his ribs and shin was still quite prevalent.

Austin pulled over and let Neal off at the curb near the courthouse. Neal walked into the courthouse by himself and headed for the second floor where he was to meet his lawyer. His fate lay in the hands of the people whom he would be facing in the next few hours.

Neal met his lawyer, and they sat at the table on the left of the courtroom. In ten minutes, the bailiff instructed everyone to rise for the judge's entrance. The judge sat down with a heavy sigh escaping his mouth. Apparently it had been a long day in court for the judge. After 20 minutes, Neal was called forward. He looked out at the spectators and locked eyes with Liv, who had evidently come to testify against him as she sat on the prosecution side of the courtroom. No one sat on the defendant's side except 17 year old Neal and his court appointed lawyer.

Liv and Neal looked at one another for several seconds—neither one wanting to turn away from the other. Neal was the first to drop his eyes to the floor. He felt embarrassed and then nauseated by the scrambled eggs and bacon he had eaten at the hospital that morning. "Oh God, please get me out of here soon," Neal prayed in an internal whisper.

Neal had no defense. He lied and told the judge about the con he had concocted and carried out all by himself. When asked where the money was, Neal had no explanation. His eyes bulged. He hadn't thought about a reasonable answer for that question. He shrugged.

The prosecution scolded him for not answering with words.

"I spent it on stuff…you know…teenage…stuff," Neal answered the prosecutor even though he had no idea what _teenage stuff_ really was. He prayed the prosecutor would accept that answer. She did and moved on.

Eventually Neal's testimony was complete, and he was told he could step down. The court next called one of the victims of the crime, Mrs. Olivia Gaber, to the stand.

On the stand, Liv was directly in front of Neal. She looked at him sitting there, so small and uncomfortable and alone. She saw his disheveled appearance and felt an intense heaviness and grief. She had entered the court angry at the young man for swindling her and her husband out of their hard-working money. But as she sat there in front of him, she realized that Neal was as much a victim as she and her husband had been.

"My husband is as much at fault," Liv confessed, "He thought the ring was worth a lot of money and offered only half of its supposed value to him. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't stop him. My husband was trying to swindle him as much as he was trying to swindle us."

Neal was shocked by her defense of him. He wasn't sure what to even think anymore.

Despite Liv's testimony, Neal was sentenced to serve ten months in a juvenile facility until the day of his 18th birthday. He accepted his sentence and fate with no response, no reaction. He was somewhat relieved to have this part of his life come to a close.

On the day he turned 18, Neal Caffrey walked out of the juvenile detention facility. Liv stood alone outside on the sidewalk. When he recognized her, he stopped and stood still with his hands in his pockets. Liv walked up to where Neal had planted his feet. She pulled him into her and murmured in his ear, "You're a good kid. I forgive you."

Neal's knees buckled at the weight of her words. She continued to embrace him, holding him while he stumbled slightly as his knees buckled underneath him. He hadn't felt the embrace of a mother figure in so many years that he had forgotten what it felt like.

Liv pulled him back and clasped her hands on both sides of his face. She looked deep into his eyes and said, "I have a bus ticket for you to get you out of here—away from the people who put you up to this. There's a better life out there for you—you just have to find the right people to help you get there."

Neal stared at her, saying nothing in response. He didn't know what to say. He continued to look at her directly in the eyes.

Twenty minutes later Neal boarded a Greyhound bus bounded away from the only family and home he had ever known. He saw Liv watching the bus until it got out of sight. The magnitude of the situation hit him: he was jobless, homeless, penniless, and parentless.

But now he was a legal adult, and the life he would live was the life he would now make for himself.


	7. Blood Relations

**Chapter Seven: Blood Relations**

"_Les Miserables_," Peter asked, laughing a little at the irony.

"Yeah," Neal answered, impressed that Peter had caught the irony. Peter always amazed him with exactly how much he did know.

"So I just headed out, and I had no clue where I would end up," Neal said to Peter.

"Why did she…ummm…Liv…help you," Peter questioned.

"Divine intervention," Neal answered.

Peter thought Neal was being facetious, but he saw the earnest expression on Neal's face. Peter smiled, remembering the conversations about religion they had had over the past two years. It was hard for Peter to believe that in spite of all Neal had been through, he could possibly be a believer. "What was going through your mind at the time," Peter asked.

After a moment of hesitation and contemplation, Neal answered, "My mother."

"Why," Peter asked.

"Because she and my father had been married for almost 15 years when she left," Neal answered, pausing a moment and rocking his head and shoulders back and forth several times.

Peter waited patiently beside him.

"And even though she left with nothing, she left nothing behind. There was nothing…no indication that she had ever existed in that apartment that she had kept up for almost 15 years. There was just nothing," Neal quietly spoke, his eyes filling with tears.

Peter grimaced, not understanding where Neal was going with this.

Neal continued, now with an agitated tone, "You wondered why you couldn't find anything on me prior to my 18th birthday! Well…I'm sure my father had something to do with that! I'm not sure how he pulled it off, but I'm sure he's the one who's responsible. Besides, my Uncle Austin was pretty well connected. Probably in the back of both of their minds, I would return to their lives and point a finger for all of the crap they had done that I knew about and was involved in. So, they made sure that I simply ceased to exist…was simply erased…just like my mother!" Neal tilted his head back to keep the tears from falling down his face.

Peter turned to look at Neal, who had then turned to look in the other direction away from him.

"Neal," Peter said.

No response.

Silence engulfed the room for a few minutes. Then Peter saw Neal shuddering. He couldn't determine if Neal was shaking from cold or was rocking himself because he was emotionally uncomfortable.

"Please answer me," Peter asked calmly.

Neal continued to face in the other direction. Then suddenly, he sprang up and tried to head toward the front door of the Burke home.

"No…no…no you don't," Peter yelled to Neal's back. "You need to stay and face this," he continued. Then Peter grabbed Neal from behind in a bear-hug and physically restrained him from going any further toward the front door.

That physical exchange caused panic to rise up in Neal, and he writhed to be free of Peter's grasp on him. Peter struggled to hold on to Neal, surprised at how physically strong Neal actually was.

"Wait…hold on," Peter said into Neal's ear without raising his voice.

After several moments of tussling, Neal gave in and became still. He realized that Peter wasn't going to let go of him—literally and figuratively. Peter could see the back of Neal's head moving from side to side as if he wanted to say no to some question that he thought Peter was going to ask.

"Calm down, Neal," Peter quietly spoke, continuing to hold him in a bear-hug. "Calm down…calm down…You can't keep burying this."

After a few minutes of Neal shaking his head, he admitted, "I'm not okay, Peter." Neal then dropped his head to the floor.

"I know you're not," Peter whispered in his ear. "There's no way you could be, son. What you lived through was horrific."

Neal began to sag down like a spent doll. Peter grabbed him up and guided him back to the couch. He lowered Neal to the couch into a seated position and sat down beside him. Quietness ensued. Peter wanted to hug him, to draw him closer, but he wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't sure how receptive Neal would be at that moment of having someone physically touch him again. He decided to just sit there so Neal would know that he wasn't alone. He knew enough about Neal to know that what Neal really needed was reassurance that Peter would be there for him.

Leaning forward and putting his face in his hands, Neal let go of some of his pent up emotions and allowed himself to cry silently with Peter sitting beside him. Peter could see Neal's stomach rise and fall as several tears slid through his fingers and hit the wooden floor below the couch. Peter placed his hand on the center of Neal's back but kept it still. He just wanted Neal to remember that he was still there. After several minutes, Neal inhaled deeply, stopped, and rubbed his face. He then cleared his throat and readied himself to face Peter once again.

Neal felt conflicted as he visualized himself putting on one side of the Scales of Justice how much he had grown to love Peter and Elizabeth and his work with the FBI and on the other side of the scales how intense the rush of adrenaline had been for him in the warehouse full of the German antiquities. His mind batted back and forth these two polar opposites. He knew he couldn't have both. He recalled Peter's advice several months back, "You can either be a con or a man; you can't be both."

Neal turned his head toward Peter and confessed, "I don't know who I am anymore." He dropped his eyes and turned away again.

"I know," Peter acknowledged, "But I'm here to help you figure that out."

Neal rubbed his hands over his face again and rocked several times back and forth. He said nothing as he waited until he could better hear through the deafening pounding of his heart in his chest.

Peter broke the silence between them, "I just need to tell you this, Neal."

Neal made no movement and kept his head down, facing away from Peter. The pounding in his chest intensified.

"Fathers don't necessarily have to be blood relations," Peter spoke softly, removing his hand from Neal's back and putting it on the side of Neal's face to turn him to face Peter.

Neal's glassed-over eyes changed as if someone had turned on a switch. He raised his eye brows, pulled his head back a little, and exhaled a short deep breath through his nose. "I don't think you know what you're getting yourself in to," Neal bantered.

"Ohhh…I think I do," Peter bantered back but in a serious tone of voice, looking Neal directly in the eyes.

Neal looked back at Peter and shot him an inquisitive expression. The corners of his mouth upturned slightly.

After a few minutes Neal said while holding his forehead, "My head is killing me. I'd like to go home now. I think you already know the rest."

"No, I don't think I do. Help me out here," Peter answered.

"What do you mean," Neal questioned innocently, knowing full well that there were huge gaps in what he had told Peter about his earlier life.

"Well, let's see," Peter said. "I know there is so much more you haven't told me. That's okay. I respect that. You can tell me when you're ready. But answer me this, okay," Peter asked.

Neal hesitantly nodded.

Peter continued, "You left your hometown at age 18. I know you came to New York and met up with Mozzie when you were about 21, and you guys were together for three years. You were in prison for almost four years and you've been with me for two years. That makes you about 30 right now," Peter stated.

"Yes," Neal affirmed.

"But that doesn't tell me what you did from the time you left home and met up with Mozzie," Peter interrogated.

"Oh, Peter…come on," Neal complained. He sat quietly for several moments as Peter continued to stare at him. Suddenly he smirked and said, "We gotta have some mystery between us to keep this relationship alive."

Peter knew that Neal was finished disclosing the secrets of his past. He quipped back, "Mystery…I have my fill of mystery with you."

"Anyway, I know you already know," Neal responded.

Shaking his head, Peter answered, "All I know is your spotty record during this three-year period when you were busted for various petty crimes in many different places. Your record doesn't really tell me about you during this time."

"Well, like I said. Let's just keep the mystery alive," Neal replied.

Peter frowned.

Upon seeing Peter's expression, Neal bantered, "Come on, Peter…there isn't much to tell."

"Okay…we'll get back to this at another time," Peter retorted.

Neal just nodded at him. They both sat back against the couch, smiling, relieved that the heaviness in the room was beginning to dissipate.

After a few silent moments, Neal stated softly, his tone changing, "You know, I didn't do it, Peter. I wasn't involved in the con against Adler. I swear to you that I didn't exchange those paintings with my own."

"Yeah, I know," Peter said, "I believe you."

Neal shifted his weight on the couch, the key to the storage unit pressing into his leg. "Peter," Neal continued.

"Yeah," Peter answered.

Neal studied Peter's face, digging deeply within and contemplating whether or not he should come clean with Peter at that moment. He again thought about the Scales of Justice. They locked eyes for a few seconds, and Peter noticed Neal's conflicted facial expression.

"Do you have something you want to tell me," Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal answered, searching for the words. After a few minutes, Neal reached into his pocket and pulled out in a balled-up fist the key and card and released them into Peter's hand. "Yeah, I need to tell you this," Neal spoke in a hushed tone that depicted his insecurity and inability to find the words he should use.

Peter looked at the key and the small typed note with an address on Ganesvoort Street. Under the address was one sentence: "YOU LL THANK ME." Peter looked inquisitively at Neal.

Neal's eyes shot down to the floor. He wasn't sure how Peter would react. What Neal was sure about, however, was that Peter would be there for him….would help him through this ordeal. Peter would protect him.

For the first time in a very long time, Neal felt safe.

The End


End file.
